


Warmth

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Complicated Relationships, Cooking, Coulson having a painful hard on in jeans ha ha, Daisy painting her toenails, F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Male-Female Friendship, Safehouses, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 22:57:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5310275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy paints her toenails, while Coulson cooks her dinner, trying to navigate their complicated relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

“Drug store du jour, coming right up.”

She closes the door behind him, trying to keep from being blasted by the icy air.

He shivers and takes off his coat, slipping off the hat, glove, he hangs them near the door and then stomps his feet to get the snow off.

“The storm’s getting worse,” he says, walking to the small kitchen and placing the bag onto the countertop.

She doesn’t answer him back and he glances over at her, sitting on the bed in their standard issue sweats, hair still wrapped in a towel from the shower.

Her feet are tucked under the folded edge of the comforter for warmth.

“Did you get my-“

“Yes,” he says, reaching into the plastic bag with his hand then tossing her one bottle, then another.

“Perfect. Thanks,” she says, holding one in each hand, smiling.

“It was the last green one,” he tosses over his shoulder, putting things away.  “You lucked out.”

Her knees are against her chest and she’s already unscrewing one of the nail polish bottles and angling the brush at her toes.

“I don’t need any help with dinner, thanks for asking.”

“You didn’t provide the getaway with your earthquake powers today.  You’re welcome.”

He chuckles at her, then stores the bag under the sink and cracks open a bottle of beer.

“Want one?”

“Maybe in a bit,” she says, her voice soft with concentration.

“Checked in on the sat phone,” he says, walking towards her. “We should be clear for extraction in the morning.”

He stops next to her just before the bed, watching her paint every other toe green on one foot.

“That a Christmas thing?”

“Yup,” she says, popping her lips.

“You know this is my side, right?” he says, bumping his knee against the bed.

“Phil-“ she starts in, pulling the brush away from her toes. “I have to work quick, it’s cold.”

“I’m sticking by my guns,” he says, holding the beer and pointing a finger at her. “It’s my side.”

He waits until she’s just about to paint another toe and bumps the bed again.

“Stop it!” she says, looking up at him, trying hard to hold on to a serious expression, until he backs away.

“I don’t have any idea what side you sleep on,” she mutters, paying attention to her toes.

“That’s why I’m letting you know,” he says, taking a long sip of his beer.

“What’s for dinner?” she asks, obviously trying to change the subject.

“It’s cold outside.  We’re trapped in the rural south.  My options were limited.  How does chicken and dumplings thrown together from cans sound?”

“Fantastic,” she mutters. “I’m starving.  I’ll help as soon as I’m done with my toes.”

He really doesn’t want her to help.  Because this, he knows how to do. He knows how to take care of her like this.

And the way things have been between them, they’re both trying to make the best of the aftermath.

Daisy is forgiving.  Maybe too much so.

But, he wants her forgiveness.  Even for good intentions gone wrong.

He looks at her out of the corner of his vision, as he bends to get the cheap saucepan and finds a manual can opener in the drawer.

This place is a really lo-fi, even for SHIELD.

“Did you have plenty of hot water?” he calls out to her.

“It was fine.  Water pressure isn’t so great.”

 “I have some egg nog and brandy for later,” he goes on. “Do you like that sort of thing?”

“Sure,” she says. “Why. Not.”

He watches her push her feet out and wiggle her toes to examine her work.

It never manages to feel like just business with her.

He’s tried to not let it distract him. 

It works.

 

####

 

It’s not working.

They’re sipping on egg nog with brandy, a plate of gingersnap cookies between them.

“That was pretty good for drug store. You should have your own show. ‘Cooking with Coulson’.”

He tilts his head at her, doesn’t really have much to say to that. She’s always more impressed by his cooking than he is.

“You can wear the suits and everything,” she smiles. “It’s the total package. Very sellable.”

“Thanks,” he says, watching her take a bite of cookie.

Her hair has dried into a wavy tousle, and her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol.

He pushes his cup of egg nog away from him a little.

“Really, thanks,” she says, pretending not to notice. “For making this nice.  I don’t really do great with holidays.”

“Me neither,” he admits.

“I even dressed for the occasion,” she adds, sliding her foot along the floor.

“See?”

He sits back to look under the table, but he really can’t-

“Here,” she says, putting her foot up on his knee, as he feels his whole body tense.

“They’re merry and bright,” he says, recovering himself, reaching for his egg nog immediately.

“Phil,” she says, wiggling them. “You didn’t even look.”

She’s looking at him like she’s just daring him to.

He glances at her toes, wraps his fingers around her arch. “Your feet are cold.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, taking a sip of her egg nog. “I’ll wear socks to bed.”

She bites her lower lip, and he wonders if she’d like to take it back.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he answers, rubbing across her arch with his thumb, sliding his warm fingers over the top of her foot.

She makes a pleased noise and sinks back further in her chair, pushes her foot higher up his leg.

Finding the armrest on the chair with his hand, he stares down at the bright red and green toes on his lap.

He swallows, and flicks his eyes back up to her.

Her finger is against her mouth, watching him try to hold his composure.

“Daisy-“

His eyes snap shut as he feels her foot press up against the front seam of his jeans.

“Yes?” she asks, like he’s actually capable of forming words right now.

A moan escapes him when she wiggles her toes against him, and she has to know he’s so hard right now.

“I can read your vibrations, Phil,” she says.

He knows she can do that. They don’t really talk about it, though.

For what, he’s now realizing, are very obvious reasons.

“We’ve never really talked about that,” he groans out, opening his eyes.

“I don’t try to, but sometimes, they’re just really, really, strong.”

Her foot moves in time to her words, and he grabs onto her foot, holds it still for a moment.

Yes.  He’s a total failure in the compartmentalization area.  This is a known fact from their friends to their enemies.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” he asks.  He wants to know.

“Frustrated,” she smirks, pulling her foot back, then standing up out of the chair, taking her mug with her towards the kitchen.

 “Are you coming to bed?” she asks, stopping to put her hand down against his shoulder.

“ _Yes_.”

 

###

 

It’s Christmas Day and he wakes up in bed next to Daisy.

He’s woken by her cold feet, more specifically.

She never did put those socks on like she promised.

Sliding his legs and his feet over hers, he tries to give her a little bit more warmth.

He watches her stir, arm draped across his waist, holding on through the night.

She snuggles in closer, until her warm cheek is pressed against the scar over his heart.

Why is it when he thinks he’s taking care of her, she somehow ends up taking care of him?

He knows the answer, he’s just never said it out loud.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, pressing his lips against her forehead.

Everything is quiet around them.


End file.
